Soggy tissues, sweary words and stinky fish smells

You know the sort of day I mean…when you get up super early because you are organised and have a list.  A list that has sub-lists and those sub-lists also have their own little clan of tiny tiny lists that are mostly inconsequential in the grander scheme of things.

The washing machine has already produced one soggy pile of laundry, complete with 980 bits of toilet roll of varying sizes…none of which are useful but they do stick to plastered walls if you throw them or spit them from your mouth.  Caution is advised as inhaling with said soggy tissue paper tucked just inside the lips can, if not secured with a vice-like grip, reverse rapidly into the trachea like a frozen pea looking for freedom.  I know this from experience because at almost 49 and three quarters, one partakes in such activities because doing so as a child would have resulted in a slipper on the arse moment.

With laundry hanging precariously from the clothes horse and tools in hand, I made my way to the job at the top of the list and the only job that didn’t have its own sub-list because I’d ordered the part from the supplier and they assured me that it was the correct part because they were the experts.

The water was turned off at the mains.  The valves to the mega flow and accumulator were also turned off.  In essence, this meant that I would be safe and dry and ready to tackle the world with my wrench and wotnots.  What should have been a 30 minute job, turned into a twice x three hour job with swear words of a nature I couldn’t possibly repeat but I was glad that I’d saved some of the soggy tissue because shortly, I would have a whole family of soggy tissues with little babies and bunny rabbits with floppy ears and a budgerigar named, Fred.

I have the patience of a Saint in a sandstorm with only a paper cup and some stockings but even that was tested as I jiggled and wiggled and levered and pulled and made up another 3 sweary type words not yet known to man nor beast and never before the watershed.

I phoned the supplier to explain my dilemma.  Yes I had removed the grub screws.  No I wasn’t a plumber.  Blah blah blah.  I contemplated sending her some soggy tissues in the post in a paper envelope with some sand.  Then the handle came off in my hand, complete with sheared bolt. There’s always a positive to a negative. The original problem appeared to be fixed.  The shut off valve worked with ease without needing a replacement part, which was just as well as they’d sent me something entirely different and at only 70 odd quid, well…a bargain.  Just think how many toilet rolls I could have purchased. Now I had an entirely different problem and need another 3 parts instead of the original part that was not even the right part.

The day couldn’t really get any worse. Lunch was fleeting and hurried. All was in hand though as I set about descaling the shower tap over the sink.  One must never be too complacent. Always pop the plug in or pull the lever to secure the work area. Ping, pop, drop, whoops and away she goes down the plug hole of no return.   The tiniest of parts disappearing from sight in the dingy darkness of doom and 10 year old mouth spit.  Not wanting to waste any more of my day off doing the dirty work, I picked up a toothbrush and shoved that into the tiny little hole that was hardly big enough to hold a sausage roll.  I have big hands for a woman and I’m clumsy.  These two things combined make for an absolute cluster fuck when faced with tiny holes and damp dark places.  Not only had I lost a tiny whatnot but now the pink toothbrush with no name had joined it in the hole of 10 year old mouth spit and what smelled like, dead fish.

This had turned into an epic all day session in the bathroom of buggery bollocks that had more tools than my local hardware shop.  I’d lost a wotnot and a toothbrush and my family of soggy toilet paper had started to dry out and lose their appeal.

If you’ve ever cleaned out a trap from beneath a sink then you’ll feel my pain, particularly when you find that you have to resort to poking around in thick black gunge for the wotnot and find your pink toothbrush is now brown and green and smells like the excretion oozing from a dog’s anal glands.  I never did like pink.

The moral of the story is to have a back-up plan, plenty of toilet paper, the correct parts and a sense of humour the size of Cornwall with a bag full of wotnots just in case and a spare toothbrush that isn’t pink.

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